The Places She'd Never Been
by madelinear
Summary: She sat sullenly in a corner, in an armchair she’d never touched ... She was deprived, malnourished, withering- she needed sun to grow, and he was overcast. She could not adapt. He could not change." Vaughn angst.


**The Places She'd Never Been  
By: Sugar Princess  
  
**

Author's notes: Dude. It's been ages since I've written. Thank you, _Alias_, for bringing me back. And, you know, if you want to review... that'd be nice. I'd love you forever.   
**Disclaimer:** I will tell you right now, if I owned _Alias_… I would not be here. Nope. I'd be… really rich. And intelligent. And drooling over Michael Vartan. *sigh*   
**Dedication:** To Nica, who got me hooked on Alias in the first place.   
**Summary:** Vaughn after Syd dies. Poor Vaughn.  
_

- - -   
True, it may seem like a stretch but it's thoughts like this that catch   
my troubled head when you're away  
and I am missing you to death

_  
-_'Such Great Heights'_, The Postal Service  


- - -   


It was not yet morning when he awoke, if waking could be used to describe the action performed. He was merely sliding from one form of consciousness to another, effortlessly, awkwardly.  
His apartment was bathed in a grey, a color suitable to his disposition, tossing shadows upon the walls that she'd never seen.   
  
He dreamt in vivid colors and delicious warmth, flower prints and sunshine and grass and picnics. In the dreams there was a house and a garden and a two-car garage, and she'd been vacuuming and singing "California Dreamin'" at the top of her lungs.   
The dream faded as he faced reality.   
  
She sat sullenly in a corner, in an armchair she'd never touched, her hair disheveled, watching, always watching. She shivered in the cool light; she was never warm. She was deprived, malnourished, withering- she needed sun to grow, and he was overcast. She could not adapt. He could not change.   
She would not leave.   
  
He felt a pang of longing for the color and heat of the dreams. His dreams were cruel, lifting him to unattainable highs featuring her, always her, her scent and her touch and her taste and her sound, all his senses bombarded by him, and though he knew he should savor it and tuck the experience away, he found himself too enamored to behave sensibly.   
In dreams she would smile and laugh and point and touch, she was happy and alive. In dreams she was there.  
  
He struggled to meet the light, grimacing as a shiver ran through his body. She was unhappy and she radiated disapproval. He wished he could shake it off and ignore her silent gasps of horror. He wanted her to crawl into the bed she'd never lain on; under the sheets she'd never rumpled to try to recapture sleep.   
They'd captured the castle, once. It was keeping up with the rent that had gotten them in the end.   
  
There were oldies in the dreams, and novels with bright covers and dog-eared pages, calendars with notes in the squares and dishes in the sink. A front porch with a swing for two. A bay window with a window seat. Matching china and silverware, tea-cups and saucers and dessert plates. A coffee machine, cartons of half and half and a jar of sugar with a spoon inside.   
Two coffee mugs, matching, wreathing with steam, his black, hers pale.   
  
Sometimes she talks, but this morning she's silent, curled up under a blanket she'd never warmed, legs tucked up to keep her safe from the monsters under his bed. She didn't know that the only things under there were dust and boxes of silly mementos he was trying to keep out of his mind. Next to his bed was a wooden frame that could barely contain the joy of the two people in the picture it surrounded.   
A piece of ice melts down her cheek as he looks from her to the photograph.   
  
In the dreams there are parties and birthdays, candles and cakes. There are holidays and a holiday decorations and Christmas mornings where she's so excited she'd rather he open his gifts first rather than waiting. Block parties and barbecues, friendly neighbors who lent sugar when she went from door to door asking because she wanted to prove that she could get it.   
The birthday cake she baked with the borrowed sugar was not nearly as sweet as her kisses.   
  
The room is brightening, and particles of time filter through the weak light. She tries to capture it in her hand, the window she'd never looked out of revealing her quarry. It flits away in a frustrating metaphor. The silence strains and snaps at its bonds, wanting to break forth into words.   
He does not know what to say. She cannot speak.   
  
In the dreams she's delighted when the tulips bloom along their walkway, when summer comes and he has more time off, when they spend their mornings lounging in bed watching old reruns and their nights out in the yard wishing on shooting stars. Their refrigerator is a collage dedicated to them, table tops and walls covered in frames chronicling their bliss.   
He cannot imagine life without her.   
  
He can hear her words although she is quiet. Sometimes she admonishes him gently, other times she encourages him. He can hear her becoming disenchanted as her timbre quakes with bitterness, her tone matching the liquid in his mouth. The liquor cabinet she'd never seen was almost empty.   
He would be, too, if she didn't stay.   
  
There's a lullaby in the dreams, and a nursery, and suddenly their peaceful world is turned upside down by a small bundle that garners more love than he thought possible. Quiet nights are interrupted by the shrill cries of a child that, and this he was certain, was the most beautiful and the most loved on the planet.   
The glow she'd had when she'd been with him was nothing compared to her joy as a mother.   
  
She blurs as she steps across the floor she'd never tread upon, and he is afraid to rub his eyes in case she disappears on him. He wants to beg her to say something, to hear the sound of her voice, to prove to himself that he's not insane. Or maybe to prove that he is, in fact, insane, but if insanity entails listening to her he's willing to go along with it.   
The only problem is that she's not.   
  
It never rains in the dreams, it's always sunshine to light the path of their life. First steps and PTA meetings and studying all meld into a routine. The child grows up, graduates, falls in love. Suddenly they're alone in their house again, much older now. She still sings around the house and he still brings her flowers to surprise her.   
Growing old serenely, still in love.   
  
He realizes abruptly that she's going to leave him, and the chill he'd felt before is nothing compared to the abject horror that washes over him now. Without her, what will he do? What good would a life be without her? She was life, hope, happiness and health. The apartment she'd never entered was empty without her.   
She has tears in her eyes as she disappears.   
  
He begins the long and difficult process of moving on. He dares to enter places her presence had never graced, try things she'd never experienced, to read novels she'd never enjoy and listen to music she'd never learn lyrics to. The dreams stop shortly after she leaves.  
He puts their picture away.  
  



End file.
